Miss G. Yes, I know. But I meant--if there was somebody who didn’t--didn’t care about the money? Mr M. (_Half under his breath._) _Said_ he didn’t! Miss G. And who--who really did care just for--for oneself alone? Oh, I must sound romantic and absurd; but you--you know what I mean, Mr Marchesson? There _are_ such men, aren’t there? Mr M. Well, admitting there was one--and it’s a handsome admission, which I limit entirely to the male sex--in the first place you wouldn’t believe in him half the time, and in the second he wouldn’t believe in himself half the time, and in the third none of your friends would believe in him any of the time. Miss G. That would be horrid--especially the friends, I mean. Mr M. Female friends! Miss G. Of course. Mr M. Another disgusting aspect of the business! Do you--do I--ever get legitimate credit for our personal attractions? Never! Never! Miss G. (_With conviction._) That’s awfully true. Mr M. So even your paragon, if you found him, wouldn’t meet the case. And as for _my_ paragon, nobody but Diogenes would take on the job of finding her. Miss G. (_Musing._) Is _nobody_ indifferent to money? Mr M. Only if they’ve got more than they want. (_He gives a glance at her, unperceived by her, rises, puts his hands in his pockets, and looks at her._) Only the unhappy rich. Miss G. (_Roused from abstraction._) I beg pardon, what? Mr M. Imagine a man surfeited, cloyed, smothered in it; a man who has to pay six other men to look after it; a man who can’t live because of the income-tax, and daren’t die because of the death duties; a man overwhelmed with houses he can’t live in, yachts he can’t sail, horses he can’t ride; a man in whom the milk of human kindness is soured by impostors, and for whom even “deserving cases” have lost their charm; a man who’s been round the d----d world--I beg your pardon, really I beg your pardon--who’s been round the wretched world twice, and shot every beast on it at least once; who is sick of playing, and daren’t work for fear of making a profit---- Miss G. It almost sounds as if you were describing yourself. Mr M. Oh no, no! No! At least--er--if at all, quite accidentally. I’ll describe _you_ now, if you like. Miss G. I get absolutely no thrill out of a new frock! Mr M. There it is--in a nutshell, by Jingo! Miss Grainger, we have found the people we want, the people who are indifferent to money, and would--that is, might--marry us for love alone. Miss G. (_Laughing._) You mean--one another? That’s really rather an amusing end to our philosophising, isn’t it? (_She rises, laughing still, and holds out her hand._) Good-night. Mr M. (_Indignantly._) Good-night be----! Why, our talk’s just got to the most interesting point! Miss G. Well, you ought to know--you’ve been doing most of it yourself. Mr M. Oh, but don’t go! I--I’ll do it better--and perhaps quicker too--if you’ll stay a bit.